Wood-fired corn tortillas – little cakes!

Restaurante Kinich in Izamel, Mexico.

Soft words float in the semi-dark hut, curling towards the ceiling with the drifting wood smoke. A gentle rhythmic sound filters between the words: pat-pat. Pat-pat.  Pat. 

Perched on small stools near a low, wood-burning fire, three dark-haired women chat amiably while they hand-make corn tortillas. 

Is this a scene from a previous century?  No. It is present day at the Restaurante Kinich, one of our favourite places to eat when we are in the pretty colonial City of Izamal. There is nothing like fresh corn tortillas, hot off the griddle! Tasty!

 

In Mexico, the dietary mainstay of most families is the tortilla made from corn, white maize.  The national average consumption per person in Mexico is 120 kilos, or around 264 pounds of tortillas per year; presumably, adults consume more than the national average, babies and toddlers considerably less. The versatility of this popular food is endless. They are used for tacos, flautas, burritos, and enchiladas, used as utensils to scoop up food, and, when necessary, used as a small plate. 



My sister Valdine in 2008 at Tortilladoras near our house

When we first moved to Isla Mujeres, there were several tortilladoras scattered around the island neighbourhoods, making fresh tortillas every morning. By seven in the morning, the delivery boys could be heard honking their bicycle horns, advertising the fresh hot tortillas. 

My sister Joann, who lives on Isla during the summer, likes to purchase from one of the smaller establishments two or three tortillas at a time - completely confounding the clerks. 

Sister Joann in the new Chedraui Store

“How much do we charge?” They wonder.

Eventually, Joann decided to buy the normal amount and give the unwanted remainder to someone else to enjoy. I’m sure they still chuckle about the “Crazy Gringa.”

With the arrival of the large Chedraui Super Store on the island, we were concerned that the smaller establishments would disappear. 

A year down the road, and they all seem to be doing well, even though Chedraui sells a kilo of tortillas slightly cheaper than the government-subsidized rate.

 In the very traditional method of making tortillas, the corn kernels are cooked with lime to remove the husk and then ground on a stone slab, a metate, with a grinding stone, a mano. Next, a little water is added until a soft dough is created.   Once the texture is perfect, a golf ball-sized portion of masa harina dough is shaped into a flat, thin pancake about six inches in diameter. Then it is placed onto a hot griddle or a wood-heated comal to be quickly cooked on both sides.  

In the commercial tortilladoras, the pre-processed grain is purchased in large sacks, often truckloads at a time. The corn flour is treated with calcium hydroxide to release the niacin in the corn and to make it easier to digest. The dough is quickly stamped into thin circles with a machine, and a conveyor belt takes the tortillas to be cooked over a gas flame. Efficient! And still very tasty.

 

However, the best tasting tortillas are the ones cooked over a wood fire – like at Restaurante Kinich. 

But if you have ever eaten at Deysi and Raul’s El Charco Restaurante on the island, you have eaten fresh corn tortillas made to order by Raul. 

Pretty darn tasty too!

 

 

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It’s mine! It’s all mine! Retired in Mexico.

My eyes slide sideways, furtively glancing around. Is anyone watching me? Then my hand reaches out and snatches the bottle of Smuckers Carmel Topping. Then another. And another. And I reluctantly stop at four bottles. With trembling hands, I quickly back away from the grocery-store aisle, rushing towards the check-out to pay for our liquid contraband.

Wait! Maybe I should buy the remaining six bottles as well?

I am tempted to run back and clean off the shelf, or at the very least, stack dissimilar items in front, slowing down the eventual sale of the residual bottles. It would be a disaster to run out of our favourite caramel topping, necessary for our morning cappuccinos. 

Overcome with indecision and trepidation, I grudgingly leave the remaining six bottles of Smuckers Carmel Topping for the other eight hundred thousand inhabitants of Cancun to enjoy.   So very thoughtful of me.

Back on Isla Mujeres, we miserly add the bottles of caramel flavouring to our hoard. Our cache currently includes eight boxes of Twinings Darjeeling Tea, twelve bottles of Santa Rita 120 Sauvignon Blanc wine and six bottles of Paul Newman’s oil and vinegar salad dressing. Amongst our friends the Santa Rita wine from Chile is a highly sought-after commodity. It is a tasty white wine that is relatively inexpensive. Despite our pleadings to the contrary, the local Chedraui grocery store manager typically orders one case at a time! Lawrie frequents the grocery store on a regular basis, picking up a few items here and there. Whenever he sees a new order of the Santa Rita, he is quick to snatch up a handful of bottles, adding them to our cache.

Then, once our supply is secure, he calls other friends on their cell phones to let them know the store has replenished the Santa Rita wine. Clever man.

When you live in a foreign country, strange things happen to your personality. Hoarding becomes second nature. Flavours that we crave are sought out, checking with other North Americans to see who has seen a particular item. Where? When? Was there a good stock or was the store about to run out?

At social gatherings, our conversations are laced with pithy stories of locating and obtaining flavoured treats. Our visiting relatives look upon us as slightly weird, off-balance perhaps. Obsessive. 

They made disparaging remarks like: “Do you always talk about food?” We stare at them, defensively muttering: “Maybe. What concern is it of yours?”

Comparing notes!

We never mention to outsiders our friend who has dozens of Lindt chocolate bars lining the door of her pantry refrigerator. Enough to last the winter season in Mexico.

It’s a deep, dark secret.

On the other hand, our winter friends understand our needs. They frequently offer to ‘mule’ items to us in Mexico when they return for the season. “What can we bring you?” They ask, fully understanding what it is like to fixate on an item that is over 5000 miles away. October and November become a precursor to Christmas when bags of our favourite salty Dutch licorice arrive, tucked in ones and twos into the suitcases of returning friends.

Hah! Let others scoff at our obsessions. At least someone understands.

As for the location of our secret hoard …… my lips are sealed.

Hasta luego

Lynda & Lawrie

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Scrub a dub dub. The colourful clotheslines of Mexico!

Everyone needs clean clothes - especially in a hot and humid climate.

Driving around the island on a sunny day, you may notice many houses have a clothesline strung across the front, festooned with brightly coloured clothing snapping in the Caribbean breeze.  

There is nothing like the fresh, clean smell of sunshine-dried clothing! 

But sometimes doing your own laundry isn’t an option. On Isla Mujeres, the average house tends to be quite small, about the size of a one-bedroom apartment with no room inside for a washing machine. The machines are costly, and the repairs can be never-ending with the high humidity and salt content of the ocean air. Even if an islander has the space for a washing machine, buying one on credit is not a good option. In Mexico, credit card interest rates are prohibitive, ranging from 3 to 4 times higher than in the USA or Canada. Forbes Magazine listed a sample of the rates in an article published in April 2012: American Express 42%, HSBC 48%, BanCoppel 88% and the Azteca Bank/Electra Centers, higher still, but unwilling to disclose their actual rates. Electra is one of the many companies in Mexico that specialize in selling appliances, from a toaster to a refrigerator or a motorbike, with extremely low monthly payments that bring the final purchase price to three or four times the original cost. 

So what do people do?  Improvise! 

There are a few commercially run businesses on the island that, for ten pesos per kilo (about fifty cents per pound), will wash and dry your laundry, folding it neatly into plastic bags ready for pick-up the following day. A number of our Canadian and American friends use these services, wisely preferring to spend their time enjoying the island rather than dealing with smelly clothes.  And several local ladies are fortunate enough to own a washing machine, and will take in washing for friends and neighbours for a similar fee. But the greater number of people on the island hand-wash and hang to dry on a daily basis, decorating houses, fences, and yards with clothing and bedding. It adds a bit of local colour to the island.  (Just ask any photo-nut, like myself, how many photographs he or she has of colourful clotheslines on Isla!)

In Canada and many other countries, the solution is commercial businesses offering coin-operated laundries or laundromats. They are generally located in every city or town near where apartment dwellers have easy access to the facility. A number of the coin-operated businesses offer assistance, for a fee, allowing the customer to leave their washing with the attendant, retrieving it after work or after shopping. 

When we first moved to Isla, a few years ago, I was entranced by the idea of line-drying our sheets and towels. I asked Patricio to install a rooftop line for me.  Then for the next six months, I trundled up to the roof, carting my freshly washed linens, carefully pinning them to the line. Ah, fresh, clean sheets!  An hour later, I would return to remove the fresh, clean sheets … to find them wrapped like large white sausages around the line, over and over and over again. Still wet. The Caribbean breezes had been playing games. Eventually, after fighting the wind and rusty clothes pegs that left non-removal marks on everything white or light coloured, I gave up.

I now use our propane-fired dryer.  I don’t mind doing the laundry. I can do it when I please, stuffing a load into the washer while I wander around in the morning with my first cup of coffee.  

The folks who do use a clothesline learn to keep an experienced eye on the weather. A sudden squall off the ocean can ruin a day’s work in a few minutes – soaking the clothes, delaying the drying time, or shutting down the operation for the entire day if the rain settles in for a few hours. 
 

Hopefully, the colourful clotheslines won’t disappear entirely. 

They are so much a part of Isla’s character.

Hasta pronto

Lynda & Lawrie

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Training the Gringos. The beach dogs of Isla Mujeres, Mexico!

With the slight lift of her lip, the tan and white dog sneered at the bowl of dog food placed before her, “Is this the best you can do? Dog Food?” She flicked her tail and trotted out of the gate, turning to stare commandingly back at the white male dog. “Are you coming?” 

He sighed, looking in dismay at a dish of half-eaten food, hoping to finish it after he had placated Her Highness.

Missy and Odd, or whatever name you know them by, have been living on a strip of the beach across from the Bachilleres school for most of their lives. Missy(a name we gave her due to her condescending attitude) was originally part of a five-dog pack. 

They mooched at the vacation houses that were being built in the area between what is now the Mango Café and the Bachilleres College. Delfino remembers spaying her before he started to use ear tattoos, so that would make her currently around ten years old.  Two or three of the other dogs in the pack were eventually adopted by Americans. That left Missy and her new friend, whom we call Odd, on the beach scavenging for their survival.

Odd is very distinctive looking.  He has one blue eye and one brown eye. A friend of mine suggested we name him Od-eye-see. Due to laziness on my part, the name has now been shortened to just plain Odd. We have been told that Odd was originally owned by a man who had a pack of fighting dogs, and Odd wouldn’t fight, so he was chased away from the house. We think he is around seven years old, but that’s just a guess.




Out of necessity, Missy has perfected her mooching act.  She sidles up to a new prospect, with her adorable Border-Collie-type ears perked up and the tip of her tail softly thumping: “Aren’t I the cutest thing you have ever seen in your life?” 

The reaction is predictable. Out comes the food: scraps of meat, pieces of cheese, anything a dog might eat. If she is hungry or if the offerings are up to her standards, she will eat. Otherwise, the next act in her repertoire includes ears tucked in, shoulders slumped and a very sad look in her eyes. However, if Missy and Odd are treated to a tasty bit of leftovers, she will perform her Happy Dance, akin to a Dog Salsa. In the winter months, they are pampered, for a week or two, and sometimes for a month or six weeks, by various sets of returning visitors. The dogs have learned to recognize their favourites, quickly re-establishing the friendship until the vacation time is over once again.


As servants to two demanding cats, we had no intention of feeding beach dogs, especially after watching how many sets of vacationers fussed over them.  

And then came the summer of 2009, with the Swine Flu scare, and few, if any, tourists on the island. The two dogs were starving. We couldn’t stand it and started to feed them, offering them food and fresh water twice a day. 



 
I eventually asked our contractor, Patricio Yam Dzul, to build a shelter for the dogs in our carport.  

That caused a lot of giggles amongst the crew. “A dog house. Seriously?” 

We now have a nice cozy place, complete with a padded bed from Costco, for Odd and Missy to curl up on during the inclement weather.

Food. Water. A safe place to sleep. Vaccinations. Monthly flea and tick treatments. Medications for various illnesses and injuries are provided when required. You would think that these two dogs would be steadfast and loyal. No! 

They have been loved and left many times during their lives.  

Grandsons and a friend with Odd the Dog

They have learned to adapt. When they see an old friend, they disappear in a puff of dog hair, running flat-out down the beach - greeting their long lost pals. We are just their backup plan. 

We are now well-trained gringos – feeding two beach dogs as well as our two cats, a dozen or so free-roaming iguanas and about two hundred hermit crabs. 

Hasta pronto

Lynda & Lawrie

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Our skewed perspective of Mexico!

Lawrie standard island attire

We wear shorts, t-shirts and sandals 360 days a year.  The other 5 days, when the weather is chilly, we wear jeans, t-shirts and sandals. 

Gone are my designer label business suits, stiletto heels and nylons. Lawrie still has one pair of expensive Italian dress shoes, tucked into a storage bin, slowly turning to mounds of fuzzy grey mould. 

When we left Canada, Lawrie gave away dozens of expensive ties, suits, and dress shirts. 

We now live in a small fishing community, Isla Mujeres, not far from Cancun. Resort-style clothing is the norm. Island living has skewed our perspective. 

 

Back in the day when we still worked!

Our recent jaunt to Guadalajara and Morelia reminded us of the more traditional Mexico. The residents dressed in business clothes, long pants, shirts and well-polished shoes for the men; dresses and high heels for the women. Shoeshine stands were plentiful in both cities. 

Here on Isla, almost everyone wears sandals or flip-flops; no shoe polish required.  Many island residents wear t-shirts advertising a political candidate in either an upcoming election or a previous election. It’s a free shirt, given out by the thousands during the months before an election. It doesn’t matter if you support the candidate or not; a free shirt is still a free shirt.

Customers dressed for breakfast in Morelia.

In Guadalajara and Morelia, we heard English spoken twice during the week. We struggled to communicate with hotel staff, restaurant servers, and the Ford service department. 

Isla Mujeres, on the other hand, is primarily a resort community with hundreds of expats living here, so the necessity to learn Spanish is not so pressing. At least six months of the year, we speak English. 

Many English-speaking friends on Isla.

During the other six months when our expat friends have returned to Canada or the US, we speak Spanglish, brutally massacring the beautiful language. 

We try to speak correctly, but our brains just don’t retain the words. Falling asleep at night allows most of our newly acquired words to leak out of our brains – evaporating quickly into the night air. It’s hell getting older.

Casual Fridays every day on Isla

The Spanish spoken here on Isla is different, heavily flavoured with informal island slang and many Mayan words, as most of the inhabitants are of Maya descent.  The Spanish we heard spoken in Guadalajara and Morelia was similar to the Rosetta Stone computer language program.  

I practiced long and hard to say ante ojos de sol for sunglasses. Here on Isla, my local friends burst out laughing. They say: lens. 

The Rosetta Stone program taught us to say carro for an automobile. On Isla, the common word is camioneta for any vehicle: truck, car or van. But then, this shouldn’t surprise me. Like Mexico, Canada is a large country stretching 5000 kilometres from coast to coast.  Years ago when Lawrie and I visited the maritime province of Prince Edward Island, we discovered that whatever language the islanders were speaking, it sure as heck wasn’t English. At least not any form of English that we could understand. 

A few years ago - Puerto Vallarta

Every adventure in Mexico is interesting, fun, and a learning experience. 

We enjoy the diversity. 

Travel helps straighten out our skewed perspective.

Hasta pronto

Lynda & Lawrie

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Morelia, Mexico: an unexpected, delightful detour!

Dormant volcano

Cruising along two hundred kilometres south of Guadalajara, on the #15 multi-lane toll highway, the surrounding land is fertile, richly coloured. 

Numerous dormant volcanic mountains tower in the distance, their peaks obscured by low clouds. The earth resembles grated cinnamon, unsweetened dark chocolate, and freshly ground coffee. 

And the air smells of burning oil.  That can’t be good.
 
We turn off the road at a highway service area into the PeMex station, and shut off the truck. Burning oil, dripping from an engine gasket onto the hot exhaust pipe. The gas jockeys gather around the truck, offering suggestions in Spanish and pointing. Lawrie has a pretty good idea of the problem. We add a litre of oil, and buy two more as a backup. We decide to turn back, at least as far as the previous highway exit, to a place called Morelia.

Morelia Centro

Our first turn-back opportunity is at a toll booth populated with a dozen or so State Police. I’m driving. I power down the window and sputter a few words, hopefully explaining that the truck is broken. “Camioneta rota. Regreso a Morelia.” 

It works. They laugh. Smile. And let us do a U-turn on the highway, picking up the traffic cones, waving us through, joking about the smoke pouring out from under the truck.  

Not the usual reaction we have had with Mexican State Police in our home state of Quintana Roo. (Perhaps I mistakenly said that his stilettos were pretty? Or that he had peanut butter stuck to his eyebrow?”)

Service Manager David and Lawrie discussing Sport Trac

We make our way to Morelia and ask the local police how to find the Ford Dealership. More smiles. Shoulder shrugs. And then a passerby helps out.  “Straight ahead, through town, and it’s on the left.” Easy! Sure.

Morelia is a big, beautiful city of around four million inhabitants, and that day, the main street was closed due to an accident.  

Morelia Centro on Saturday night

We spent the next hour trying to find our way around the various hilly side streets, following first one taxi then another. I pulled over at a little vehicle repair shop and asked for help; more directions in Spanish, and a hand-drawn map. 

As I got back into the truck, the shop owner’s son pulled up beside me on his motorcycle. “Follow me!” He zipped along back streets, one-way streets, and tight corners, and then we were there. He waved off our offer of a tip for his efforts.  Just smiled and waved. Gone.

We are now completely captivated by the City of Morelia.  Beautiful and friendly. 

David, the Ford Dealership Service Department manager, was very helpful, but it was Saturday, and they had already closed the service department for the day. All the mechanics had finished work at two in the afternoon, and were done until nine in the morning on Monday. There was nothing for us to do but find a decent hotel for a couple of nights and explore the city. David handed our taxi driver a Ford Service Department coupon for a complimentary taxi ride to a hotel. He suggested the Alameda Hotel, near the gorgeous cathedral in Centro. It was an interesting hotel, composed of three old hacienda-style buildings. The sturdy stone walls made the hotel rooms extremely quiet and cool.

Musicians in Morelia Centro Saturday night

Saturday night, Centro was buzzing with people. People gathered in the cathedral square to watch entertainers, chat with friends, or enjoy a drink in a sidewalk café. It was fascinating. We spent the next two days exploring the city on foot and by tour bus. 

Originally settled in the 7^th century, the city was later settled by the Spanish in 1525 and renamed Valladolid in 1541. The name was later changed to Morelia in 1828, to honour a local hero, José Maria Morelos Y Pavón, for his part in the War of Independence from Spain.

Sunday morning mayhem in Centro Morelia

Sunday morning, we stepped outside of our hotel to be confronted by an odd sight; dozens of people riding bicycles, children on plastic pedal cars, teenagers on roller blades with dogs running along beside. Not a car in sight. We wandered, snapping photographs and exploring side streets. 

By Monday we were anxious to make a decision on the truck: repair, or not. We returned to the Ford Service Department.  A part was required, but it could take two or more weeks. David said we could drive the vehicle as long as we checked the oil frequently.  Lawrie asked them to balance the front tires, and said we would be back in the morning to get the truck.

One of dozens of shoe shine stands in Centro

Lawrie made a phone call to the company in California that supplied and imported the Sport Trac for us. They apologized profusely. They suggested we could either leave it in Morelia or, if we wanted, we could drive it back to Guadalajara and leave it with their representative there. They would find us a better vehicle, quickly. 

In the meantime, on our last night in Morelia, Lawrie happened upon a nearby restaurant that had great reviews on the internet: Casa Grande. We decided to treat ourselves to a good dinner.  It wasn’t just good, it was fabulous! Appetizers, rack of lamb, dessert, and wine, the total bill was around 80 dollars.  It was our tastiest dinner out in four years, including our recent trip to France and Italy. 

Roof top view at Casa Grande Restaurante in Morelia

Leaving Morelia on Tuesday morning, we had an interesting drive through the scenic secondary roads back to Guadalajara, and back to our original hotel. We flew home to Isla on Wednesday.

We’ll continue our cross-country adventure at a later date, including a one-night return to the lovely City of Morelia. 

It was an unexpected, delightful detour.

Hasta pronto

Lynda & Lawrie

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